2024 MLA Interviews
1. Why did you want to share this personal story with the world?
The book came about after I wrote an essay that was published in The Atlantic about the Taliban regaining control of Afghanistan. The impetus for that essay was that I felt that I had to tell the world about how I, and thousands of others, knew way back in 2011 that it was just a matter of time until the Taliban were once again in power. My now literary agent read that essay and asked me whether I had thought about writing a book. I had not, but he encouraged me to share more of my story, and here we are.
2. How often and to what extent did you consider the reader's perspective when writing your memoir? Did that change the way you wrote about your story?
I did not consider the reader’s perspective beyond trying to make sure all the various acronyms and military speak were (somewhat) understandable. A fair number of people have asked me this question, and I hadn’t even considered it until months after the book was published. I don’t know that considering the reader’s perspective is either actually possible in writing a memoir, or, if it is possible, a useful exercise. I suspect that you then start to enter a mindset of story creating, not necessarily storytelling, and for works of nonfiction, that seems like a slippery slope.
3. What was the most surprising thing you learned through the process of writing your memoir?
I wrote 95% of the book as it is now published in three months. (There are a lot of caveats to this: I have an incredibly supportive partner, I work remotely part-time, I don’t have children, and I generally have far more control over my time than most people who are beholden to our systems of capital.) I think there’s this idea that writing has to take time, or that it has to be difficult, or that you’ll have to write many many drafts before you figure out what you want to say, and I found that those things aren’t always true. Some days, sure, I only write 300 words, but most days I hit my goal of 1000. Some chapters I had to rewrite ten times, but more than a few I was able to get done in one or two drafts. I will say that it was taxing, in the way that any major intellectual effort is taxing, but it was rarely hard. And, in those moments when it was hard, that usually meant that I was trying to force something that didn’t work. The final caveat is that I had the additional luxury of having spent a fair amount of the last ten years thinking, off and on, about my career in the military, such that many of my thoughts, while not fully crystallized, had at least been refined such that I wasn’t starting from scratch. More than anything, it was this feeling that I had done enough thinking to write the full story that surprised me.
1. What inspires you to write books for Young Adults?
Growing up is almost by definition heroic. Even as a young adult myself, I loved coming-of-age stories. The awakening feelings in teens are huge: Love, Morality, Loyalty, Identity. Emotion can outstrip reason (it sure did for me), creating a sometimes-reckless commitment to fitting in and figuring out who you are. How this unfolds for each person is dependent on social context and an endless variety of circumstances. What better period of life to harvest for fiction?
2. How do you approach a story like this?
I wanted to push readers into the gray areas around the novel’s themes of social power, friendship, romantic relationships, sexual autonomy, and loyalty versus justice. We all know that real girls have been date-raped by “normal” guys who go unpunished for all sorts of reasons. I felt the need to honor those stories with an honest exploration of the conditions that allow them to keep happening. I didn’t want to gloss over those social mechanisms with a simple narrative. Avoiding the “all males are toxic” notion was a top priority, along with resisting preachiness. I told myself to present the story and trust readers to decide for themselves what is right and what is wrong.
3. In what ways do you hope to impact young people with this book?
I really want to give young people a springboard to think about and discuss where they stand on things, important things. What would you do if you were Max, suddenly catapulted from social irrelevance to running with alpha wolves? Would you compromise your principles to stay with them? What if you were Charlotte and realized your seemingly devoted dream boyfriend was wrapped up in a misogynistic secret society? Would you confront him? What if you or your friend were like Quinn, raped by a popular upperclassman but without any evidence? Would vigilante justice best settle the score? What if you have all these secrets? Do you tell? If so, who? In the book, the Lycroft Phelps School uses a question, ultimately ironic, as part of its credo: Who will you be? It’s on the elite school’s website, marketing materials, and tee-shirts. That’s my wink to the readers. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
1. How do you hope to impact children with your writing?
I’m drawn to telling stories about heroes who never set out to become heroes. Especially underdogs. Little-known and underestimated people who harnessed their courage in barrier-breaking ways; who went against social norms to stand up for something they believed in. When I really dig in to why I write for children, this is it. I want to inspire young readers to get in touch with that hero within. I want them to uncover what really matters to them, and to know that they’re inherently worthy of following that, even if it’s an unpopular course of action. I hope my writing can help give children the encouragement to tap into and honor their inner voice, especially when it’s saying something different from all the other loud voices around them.
2. What was your intention for writing this book about the Holocaust?
At first, I set out to tell the story of this remarkable teenager in the French Resistance. Her name was Judith Geller, and she used a hollowed-out toy duck to hide false identity papers from the Nazis. But as I researched the story further and began to draft it, I was particularly struck by the fact that the duck is now in a museum, out in the open, under bright lights, for all to see. In my mind, I juxtaposed that with the all the hiding that took place in World War Two – not just the duck hiding the documents, but also people hiding their identities, hiding their families, and some making the devastating decision to send only their children into hiding. Children, given their smaller size, were easier to smuggle to safety.
So, to me, another layer of this story is the duck as a symbol of shining a light on the truth. The Nazis tried to cover up their crimes when they realized they were losing the war. And here is this toy that survived to help tell the world the truth. Another theme that emerged during my writing process, as I was immersed in this story of hiding, was the importance of never having to hide the truth of who you are. I found myself asking some uncomfortable questions, such as where in my life do I feel like I have to hide my feelings, opinions, or beliefs because they won’t be accepted? These aren’t often conscious questions. And they’re certainly not fun ones to explore. But I hope one of the takeaways for young readers, as well as parents, caregivers, and educators, is deciding to show up in any given situation as the most authentic version of who they are. Never hiding. Always bringing their fullest selves into the room and the conversation. That’s something I emphasize when I go into schools and talk about this book with students, how important it is to recognize situations where they might not feel accepted, and to seek out people who make them feel safe to express who they are.
1. Where did the idea for this novel come from?
The idea for the novel came from a picture that found its way somehow into my mind of a boy journeying on foot to a mountain in a desolate place at the end of the world. Years later, as I became more interested in stories of the apocalypse from around the world, I became fascinated with some recurring themes which kept popping up, which include a cyclicality of time, a renew of the earth, and a gathering of people for a dharmic restoration. I became particularly fascinated with the traditions coming out of Tibet, and found that a post-apocalyptic novel set in the Himalayas and informed by their cosmology was the perfect backdrop for that same story of the boy and the mountain for which I’d had that haunting flash of inspiration. I had never seen a post-apocalyptic story told from an Asian perspective, or in such a setting as the Himalayas, but what I loved in writing it was the discovery that in facing the end, time and space lose all meaning, and that there are some universal truths that can be revealed as a result.
2. What was the research process like?
The research was very interesting. In some ways, there’s surprisingly little by way of secondary sources on the topics I was interested in. What this meant was having to spend a lot of time directly in English translations of primary sources. The material forms the foundation of so much of the mythos in Karma of the Sun. For example, I ended up using verses directly from The Lotus Sutra and the Pali Canon in the epigraphs. The Lotus Sutra is a book in the Tibetan Buddhist canon from the 1st century CE, which contains a lot of very beautiful stories and allegories about the path to enlightenment. The Pali Canon is an even older collection of texts believed to be from 29 BCE, including a sermon attributed to the Buddha about the earth’s apocalyptic fate due to seven suns that cause progressive ruin until the planet is destroyed. These inform much of the background on the cataclysms that are the backdrop of the novel, and which hint at the future of the world.
3. What do you think it is about apocalyptic stories that draws people in?
I wrote an article for Lit Hub/Crime Reads about this exact question, called “Why We Can’t Quit the Apocalypse,” musing on the popularity of these types of stories. The thesis can perhaps be summed up in the epiphany that Karma has in the book when he recognizes that “apocalypses, great and small, come for them all.” We all will face mortality—an end—and we know it. Yet the irony is that we don’t always live in a way that acknowledges that. How might our choices, our relationships, our use of time be different with this at the forefront of our mind? I think apocalyptic stories give us an opportunity remember that life is finite and precious, that we might change the way we live. There are lots of other reasons—the spectacle of the kind of destruction, the vicarious experience of imagining oneself in the extremeness of that kind of situation—but I am interested in the catharsis of having to imagine the end and the reflection that follows of how to live life with the time one has left.Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
1. What inspired you to make this book?
Growing up in Ashland, a tiny town located all the way up in Aroostook County, I was often torn between a fierce love of the land and a sense that I didn’t always fit in with my community. Part of this dissonance was a result of spending most of my first six years in and out of hospitals with two congenital heart defects. The trauma of multiple operations, including two open-heart surgeries, left me feeling anxious and isolated most of my childhood. Even after I was physically healed, I always felt like the other.
What helped was reading stories and books, imagining worlds beyond my own rural landscape. When I read, I could be anyone, anywhere. The evolution from reader to writer happened quite naturally—I started keeping journals in first grade, filling them with my own stories. As I grew older, I (perhaps ironically) began to set many of these narratives in the town I was most familiar with, which I called Dalton, in honor of the brief period in time when that was actually Ashland’s name.
Beginning in my mid-twenties, I started focusing on creating a story collection and/or novel (or series of novels) that centered around Dalton. I wanted to honor the beauty of the landscape I came from and shine a light on an area of Maine that is largely underrepresented in literature. I also wanted to explore the many different ways characters might feel like outsiders in their own town, much as I did when I was growing up. I love to imagine all the possibilities for how this otherness might manifest in such a tight-knit community.
While I still hope my work helps put Aroostook County on the literary map of Maine, it’s been even more humbling to experience people from everywhere (even from away) who identify with Dalton, recognizing something of their own hometowns within it. I think a place like Dalton appeals to readers because we have all felt, at least once, like the “other.” And I’m grateful my books can give outsiders like myself a safe place to reside and feel included.
2. How do you go about creating characters?
I actually believe my characters ultimately create themselves.
A good example is one of the main characters in Dalton, Nate Theroux. Nate has been living in my brain for about a decade now. He first appeared as a tall, gangly shadow, a reluctant yet kindhearted cop. I knew he had a daughter and that he’d gone through a personal tragedy. But I didn’t discover his entire narrative or deeper complexities until I started writing that first book and allowed him to walk on those gangly legs into places I didn’t expect.
Bev Theroux, Trudy Haskell, Dr. Haskell, Greg Fortin, Rose Douglas... all of them sparked into existence in a similar way. First a shadow of a character in my head, then a fully formed person leading me through each page, telling me their story and asking me to honor them by writing that story as best I could.
I do choose certain things about my characters very intentionally, particularly their names. A lot goes into a name: the personality of a character, the time and place they were born. I do a lot of research on the meaning of first and last names, baby-name trends by decade, and popular names by region.
Whenever I write about Dalton, I am hyper-aware, and a little afraid, of accidentally including a character whose name is too similar to that of someone from Ashland or the towns surrounding it. There are only so many French-Canadian surnames I can come up with before one inevitably, yet unintentionally, hits too close to home for somebody.
3. Did you worry about writing fiction about a place some might think is close to where you grew up?
Of course! Particularly with the first book in the series, I put a lot of pressure on myself to get the County “right” on the page, from local humor to patterns of speech to the smell of the woods in winter.
But the more I write about Dalton, the more it has become its own universe, independent of the places that inspired it. This began in The Road to Dalton and became much more pronounced while I was writing the sequel, Where the Forest Meets the River (on sale 9/3/24). The setting has changed slightly from the landscape of Ashland and the County to accommodate the needs of my characters—I’ve had to add a barn here, move a river there, etc. This growing separation between real place and imagined town has allowed me a freedom to explore the narratives on a deeper level and to add more nuance to my characters.
So, while I acknowledge my hometown as the inspiration for Dalton, I’m excited to see how the fictional place keeps evolving to become something more than I ever could have imagined when I started writing the first book.
I understand, however, that for readers who still live in Ashland, they no doubt still find that town in my work, from familiar landmarks to characters they may believe are based off actual people who live there. While I always give the disclaimer that each event and character in Dalton is fictional, I also recognize I have no control over how readers will bring their own perceptions and experiences to the page.
That’s the beauty of fiction: Everyone can adapt it to fit into their individual story, to reflect their own familiar universe back at them.
Adrian Blevins
What is the purpose of poetry?
I could give you a different answer to this question every hour on the hour all of June. Today it feels most right to evoke Karl Shaprio’s idea that “the meaning of poetry is the meaning of ‘hey nonny nonny’,” which is from William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. I’m saying this because I’ve been thinking a lot about all the work we do interpreting poems in high school and college (if we are lucky). I mean, what else might be done with them? Do we really need to interpret Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”? Not really. We just need to—get to—feel it with her. Same with “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and any other great song ever written. Ada Limon says this in her poem “Downhearted,”the first 3 and 1⁄2 lines of which are:
Six horses died in a tractor-trailer fire.
There. That’s the hard part. I wanted
to tell you straight away so we could
grieve together.
So, what I’m thinking is, via one hundred thousand + amazing techniques and methods and innovations that English—the medium—makes possible, poems help us “grieve together”(unless we’re talking about something like Otis Redding’s “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,” as there the purpose would be more to swing together).
How do you approach writing a poem?
I get what the poet Richard Hugo calls a “triggering line” in the essay “Writing off the Subject” in The Triggering Town and try to follow that sound to its most unlikely discombobulation. The main thing poetry has taught me is that the thing that comes must come from the thing that came before. And yet be a complete surprise! Meanwhile, the tension or surprise that comes, when it comes, comes from when the sentence—that driving force—is interrupted by something like but not quite its opposite—some sort of silence or big fat blow up that the silence unfurls. The painter Willhem de Kooning says that “Content...is a glimpse of something, an encounter, you know, like a flash,” and what poetry continues to teach me is that what we write about is a vehicle for some magic shit far more mysterious and low down and watery and communal than anything like an aboutness.
Did you have any trepidation about writing about divorce?
I’ve been thinking about this. The trepidation I have now is about how dumb my trepidation was then. You know, another way of thinking about what a poem can do is to think of it as a strike of lightning between two people. We read to connect to another mind and heart. I read a lot of fiction as well as poetry (and creative nonfiction, for that matter: I’m a maniac), and I used to say that I read fiction to “live in someone else’s hell for a little while,” as someone whose name I am blanking on now said. But maybe that’s not true. I think the best writing—no matter the genre—brings us closer to one another by helping us understand what it means to be human on this planet during this time. How hard that is! Marriage is hard because life is hard. Relationships are hard. Work is hard. Writing is hard. Love is hard. It’s all fucking really hard. I love the writers who tell me the truth about living in a body+mind on this planet—who just get out there and DO IT no matter the consequences. And I know that there’s not just “one truth.” So that fragment of a true feeling-thing in that moment of time that’s the lyric unfolding—that’s the intimacy I’m looking for when I read.